Can Anything Top Valentine’s Day Lovemaking? Well, Actually, Yes! ~ Angela Goodnight

My husband has always given me the most wonderful and unexpected surprises. I know they will be well thought through and incorporate wonderful food and a giant-sized bed. Valentine’s weekend  2016 was to be no exception.

Mum had come to stay in Gurney with us for a couple of weeks, which always inhibits our lovemaking (we like afternoons best) and I was sitting at the kitchen table having breakfast with her when the post arrived. I collected it. There was a credit card bill for Peter and a bright red envelope for me.

“Still getting Valentines, dear?” mum asked.

I ripped the envelope open and took out an attractive card, with lots of glitter, which I love. Inside there was, as always, a stupid cheesy verse:

I am fortunate to know you,
That’s why I want to say,
To a rare and special person:
Happy Valentine’s Day!

There was, naturally, no signature, but it did bear a hand-written message, “Pack a two night case including warm stuff and evening stuff! I’m carrying you off 11am Saturday.”

That was today!

It was already nine-fifteen. He was out at the moment, but said he’d be back later. I showed mum the card and ran up to the bedroom. His case was already packed and sitting at the end of the bed. Mine, empty, was on the bed ready for me. I started packing, heard the phone ring and came down to find out who it was. Mum just laughed and told me it was an anonymous man asking if I’d got the card. LOL. Peter ensuring the post hadn’t let him down, no doubt.

Lowry Hotel, ManchesterEleven on the dot, we set off in the Jaguar, buying a sandwich lunch in Sampford Peverell before joining the M5 motorway northwards past Bristol, through Birmingham’s spaghetti junction and onwards north via the M6 to Manchester where we arrived at the sumptuous Lowry Hotel just after five o’clock.

What a beautiful suite. A large, extremely contemporary bedroom with stylish easy furniture plus a separate lounge-dining room. The views over the Irwell River were simply fabulous as long as you enjoyed urban scenery. Once in a while we do.

We had a cuddle, but no sex – think he was saving himself for later – and enjoyed a pot of tea, freshly made and brought by room-service, not the do-it-yourself variety with milk cartons in the room. One of the real benefits of Peter’s wealth is it paid for little extras which seemed ordinary until you didn’t have them. The fabulous room, the spaciousness, the fresh tea and the wonderful view all came at a price, but I knew the price was unimportant.

“Why are we in Manchester?” I asked after a thoroughly enjoyable hug and kiss once room service had left.

“You’ll see,” is all he would say.

[I should point out that all of our stories are true and unlike many sex blogs, our stories are more about the beauty of our own real lovemaking rather than the more common BDSM trend. Also, we’ve always seen sex and loving as something beautiful rather than filthy or pornographic. I’m just letting you know that so you don’t read on if you want the ‘other stuff’. We both like a violent fuck as much as the next couple from time to time, but, frankly, normally prefer gentle and caring. If you want to know more about us and why we write our stories, visit the Back Story page.]

After tea we unpacked and he had me dress in my finest cocktail dress. In fact I’d chosen the black one I’d worn the night in the Cadbury House Hotel when we were first reunited. Him stripping me out if it, is one of the highlights of my life. I know it is not always good to try to re-live memorable events, but I was sure this would be. Peter wore his stylish dark green suit with the finest yellow pin-stripe pattern, brown shirt and gold tie. A lovely combination. He always looked wonderful, but I so rarely saw him dressed so fine. One of the benefits of being retired is never having to dress for work so dressing up like this becomes much more of a special event.

I grabbed my black clutch-bag and we headed down for dinner. First we entered the bar and both ordered gin and tonic with ice and lemon. Again the same drink we had in 2010. We sat at one of the open tables in the bar, which I thought was a little odd. Peter usually wanted a more intimate setting, but, as the time reached seven-fifteen I discovered why he’d chosen such an exposed location.

A smart-looking couple in their thirties entered the bar. Oh my God, it was my namesake, Angela (Peter’s daughter, but named for me) and her husband Mark. How wonderful. We both jumped up and there were hugs all around. We didn’t get to see Angela as often as his two sons and their families so this was a real treat. Drinks were ordered and the conversation was amazing, learning more about how Shannon and Mary were getting on at school. They were Peter’s granddaughters and were now sixteen and fifteen respectively.

I always found them very juvenile, especially when I remembered back to when I was their age. My virginity went at fourteen to Peter who was sixteen. It was beautiful and we were so in love. We were also not childish in the manner of Shannon and Mary. Perhaps upbringing was different in our day and made us think more deeply about things. I’d use the words ‘more responsible’, but don’t see how I can do so when my virginity had gone so young. So difficult to compare ages and the times in which they live. I was glad they were not at dinner as it gave us a chance to talk as four adults. I didn’t really know Mark that well and I think he still had a lingering doubt about me from when Peter had to leave Charlotte to cement our relationship. Angela and Charlotte had been very close and still are. I didn’t mind that, Charlotte was part of their lives. Anyway, the conversation and company was fabulous.

We had the most wonderful meal with some of the finest cooking we’ve tasted since the Padstow Seafood Restaurant so we’d all recommend the River Restaurant at the Lowry for a special occasion. It’s location, too, overlooking the Irwell, is spectacular and we could see it was possible to dine outside on the balcony during the summer.

We all retired to our suite where we had a bottle of champagne delivered. We chatted on into the night with Angela and Mark not leaving until about one in the morning (they took a cab back to Cheadle where they lived). Owing to the lateness of the hour we cuddled up together and postponed our passion until the morning – age does have its drawbacks. What a lovely evening.

– o O o –

We awoke to daylight streaming in through the windows. I could see Peter was up and pulling back the curtains so we had the urban vista of Manchester spread out before us. He was standing naked, his lovely bum towards me. I supposed people in buildings the other side of the Irwell were getting a full-frontal of him, but doubted anyone watched the Lowry through binoculars in case they caught sight of a naked pensioner. LOL.

I climbed out of bed and came up behind him, encircled him with my arms and lifted my right thigh so it rubbed the outside of his. He stood still as I caressed his flanks, his chest and tummy. Perhaps his torso tightened a little as my hands fell to discover whether or not he was aroused. I encountered Zebedee (our pet name for his penis) pointing almost straight out at the river and within a few caresses it had climbed to be almost vertical. I loved its firmness, its warmth, its spongy interior and the baby-soft skin which attempted to keep it enclosed. I sensed my own arousal growing as I moved my breasts against his back.

Still with my tummy hard against his bum, my other hand cupped his balls. One so much lower than the other, but my caresses were causing the sac to tighten, lifting them to almost the same height. My right hand stroked downwards, removing the protection from his glans and he breathed in sharply as my fingers played with his exposed flesh. It was very slightly tacky, but as my fingers delicately stroked it and kept clear of his meatus, the flesh dried allowing me to run my fingertips around and around more and more swiftly and with virtually no friction. I couldn’t see Zebedee, but I knew there would be a crystal clear bead of pre-cum waiting at his opening. I anticipated its taste.

I fell to my knees, turned him towards me and, while still gripping his shaft tightly, I let the tip of my tongue sample his nectar. What an extraordinarily sweet taste this special liquid has. A squeeze and some more appeared and it, too, was swiftly taken and savoured as I licked my lips and took the whole of his glans into my mouth. I heard his intake of breath, felt his legs tighten as he kept his position solid. I caressed his corona with my tongue and moved my moist lips up and down the crucial top couple of inches of his erection.

As I fellated him, I sensed my short satin nightdress gradually being lifted by his fingers. My own hands released their hold on his penis and I stretched them upwards to allow the garment to be quickly and efficiently removed from my body. I ceased my fellatio so he could cast it to the floor.

I stood and embraced him tightly. Zebedee was pressing hard against my tummy and his hands grasped my breasts, each encompassing one totally, kneading and caressing. In seconds they were glowing with an inner warmth and his fingers played with the erecting nipples. So sensuous.

I reached down, took hold of his erection and pulled him over to the bed. I rolled him over and sat astride him, his penis hard against my clitoris, my thighs sensing the strength of his between them, my hands on his chest.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I whispered, fell forward and our lips met in a kiss which was still as desirable and wonderful as our special first kiss on the golf course steps in Gurney over fifty years earlier, when he imprisoned my heart forever. The warmth of our lips, the moistness, our tongues tenderly dancing a tango in the darkness of our mouths. It has always mystified me why people stop kissing passionately as they get older. It is such an intimate experience and so loving.

The kiss ended, “I love you,” he said, softly and with meaning.

I lifted myself, slid forward, feeling Zebedee against my clit until I reached the end and its natural springiness caused it to lift into my vulva. Now I slid downwards, thrilling to the magnificent sensation of being first opened, then, oh so slowly, filled by him. The expansion and heat inside was incredible. I could feel his corona as it moved along my length and squeezed my vagina tightly around him, eliciting a moan of joy from his lips, which I quickly covered with mine once more.

Beginning to make loveI didn’t move. He made no attempt to move. I tightened my inner muscles every few seconds to grip Zebedee and I knew the bottom of his shaft enjoyed squeezing so much. Again and again. Probably every four or five seconds, relaxing between and sensing the astonishingly special feeling of having him within me. This is where it has always been meant to be, held securely within my body, hot, firm, thrilling me with the knowledge of its potential. Squeeze and relax. Another kiss, also kissing his cheeks, his ears, his nose  before sitting up, changing the orientation of penis in vagina, feeling as I came upright, the pressure against the front  of my entrance and g-spot and the slight movement of my clitoris on his pubic bone. Absolutely delightful.

I played my fingers over his chest, his nipples, his flanks, running them through the hair on his tummy then down into the thicker bush of tangled camouflage which was now mottled black and grey. I pushed forward moving my clit against his body, but hardly changing the position of his erection within me. He knew I enjoyed this. The friction against my tiny nub of flesh, working it clear of its own foreskin so it rubbed directly against his wire-wool covered pelvic bone. I knew this could sometimes hurt, but was also certain it would not today, in this position, in this loving Valentine fuck. I knew it would grow in its sensitivity.

All the time I continued the squeezes of my vagina, hard, hard as I could, putting every ounce of energy into trying to crush the creature which so beautifully occupied my body, knowing he loved it and seeing the smile on his face as he realised this was for both of us.

More squeezes, more rubs against him. I fell forward again. We kissed once more. I made the movements more rhythmic, Williamina (our pet name for my clitoris) increasing its speed of friction against his pubic area while his penis moved but millimetres within me. Squeeze and rub, rub and squeeze. I closed my eyes, appreciating the selfish beauty of my masturbating myself against him. Hotter and faster.

Suddenly I cried out, “I love you,” and collapsed upon him, my vagina no longer being compressed by my purposeful squeezes, but now taking on a life of its own. Waves of force ran its length, squeezing my husband’s fabulous erection as my climax ran its course. Me totally incapacitated and feeling his hands gripping my shoulders tightly as the contractions continued relentlessly, imitating male ejaculation.

“Eighteen,” he whispered and chuckled.

“Mmmh!”

“That was lovely,” he added.

“Mmmh!” which was all I could say.

“Love you, Ang.”

“Mmmh,” but this time I was able to turn my head and our lips touched. I had no energy, but felt his kissing mine, working around their perimeter, then to my cheek and my nose.

“Mmmh,” I repeated, never wanting the amazing loveliness of our lovemaking and intimate embrace to end.

His hands came off my back onto my flanks and caressed downwards until they were at my hips. He began to lift me forwards and back and the movement of Zebedee within me fired off another couple of spasms. I know I’m lucky that I get multiple orgasms so easily, but it is these unexpected additional contractions which are the icing on the cake. Lovely surprise thrills.

He was using my body as a masturbation sleeve now and how he deserved it. My morning Valentine fuck had been to die for and it was he and his lovely erection which had provided it. Now was payback time.

As he moved me back and forth I simply ran my fingers over his face and kissed everywhere I could reach. Gradually I realised he was moving me further and further on each lift. Was there an increase in frequency, too? I thought there was. I was so enjoying the friction in my body and guessed he was getting close.

He kept calling out his endearing, “Oh Ang,” increasingly often. His breath was faster and more frantic, his hands holding tight to my hips, the length of his strokes longer and deeper and finally the cry of “Coming!”

Oh boy, I loved feeling him come with me on top. I squeezed every sexual muscle I possessed and swear I sensed each and every pulse as his ejaculation entered me. My own squeezes set me off again, only two or three contractions, but making our morning lovemaking even more special. My beautiful Valentine’s fuck.

We lay so still after the event. His breath slowly returning to normal and me sensing the leak of his nectar into his pubic hair. We’d both failed, yet again, to remember to have the box of tissues to hand. One of our greatest failings and as I rose from his body, I jet propelled the bulk of his semen like a snail-trail across his abdomen and we both fell about in hysterics. Heaven knows what the maids must think of stiff sheets when they are changing the beds in hotels. Guilt ran through my mind.

After a lovely post-coital cuddle we finally rose, showered together and prepared for the day. He’d told me to dress up warm so I guessed Valentine’s Day was going to be something outside.

At lunch time we found a bar with a giant TV and watched the Arsenal v Leicester game. What a disappointment when Leicester lost a player and the Scum equalised. It was even more frustrating when they managed to get a literally last second winner to pull them three points clear of our team, Tottenham Hotspur.

After lunch we were walking through part of the city when I began to notice a large number of people wearing the pale blue and white of Manchester City. Oh my God, I knew where we were heading – our first visit to the Etihad stadium.

We found our way to the entrance for the Spurs supporters and, as usual, away fans are squeezed up together in the most unfashionable part of the ground. What an amazing stadium, yet the new Spurs ground is planned to be even larger. Both of us have been life-long supporters and this game has to be just about the most important of the season, probably the most important in a decade. If we lose Arsenal will stay ahead of us and Manchester City will overtake us. If we draw Arsenal will be pulling away. Only a win will do, yet it is needed against a club which has spent mega-millions on star players and which most pundits consider to be the best team in the league. Could the Spurs’ young cockerels produce the goods on this ground which has often seen the death of our ambitions?

Wonderful atmosphere and we were in the middle of a bunch of extremely vocal supporters. It was almost like playing in north London. This year Spurs had changed and grown as a team and no longer capitulated under pressure. There is a steely determination about them and the style of football is the epitome of why it is known as the beautiful game. However, this game was undoubtedly the hardest of the season. Most fans thought a draw was possible, but hoped for a win. Being a Spurs supporter, though, always means that you are prepared for crushing defeat. No team is as successful as Tottenham at pulling defeat from the jaws of victory!

Anyway, I’m sure all you readers want more cocks, tits, cunts and jizz, but it’s my blog and it is my Valentine’s Day and you can get stuffed because I write what I want to write.

What a wonderful team performance. The first half saw us with more possession than the home team and our defence seemed rock solid. In the second half we managed to get a “sort-of” fluky penalty (we actually thought it was right as his elbow blocked the shot), but I suppose it was only justified that they managed to equalise around seventy minutes, but never once did we give up.

Lamella's brilliant run and pass to Eriksen saw us beat City. MagnificentIt could have gone either way then my favourite player, Lamella (in the background of this picture), came on as a sub, made a magnificent individual run from his own half, down the centre, cutting through the City defence and laid off an inch perfect pass to Eriksen and we were ahead again.

City threw everything but the kitchen sink at us to try to equalise and failed.

The Spurs fans went ballistic and it was wonderful to see the players come over after the game and cheer us for cheering them. Even the manager.

Premier League Table after our gameNow we’re firmly in second place with everything to play for. After fifty-five years, we can really start to dream of winning the premiership again and, dare I say it, the double is still on, too! Knowing Spurs, unfortunately, it could also still be nothing.

[For the uninitiated GD in that table is how many more goals you have stored than conceded. Our goal difference is fantastic and worth one point which is why we are above Arsenal. The bars on the right show how good our current form is. We play Arsenal at home (White Hart Lane, Tottenham) early March and it could be crucial.]

Anyway, back to the sex and my Valentine’s weekend.

That night we didn’t eat in the Lowry, but headed to a really brilliant Japanese restaurant where the food was all cooked right in front of our eyes. We got a cab back to the hotel, I fellated him to orgasm and we snuggled up together. It is not a good idea to take Viagra after alcohol and he never needs one for fellatio.

In the morning Peter took the magic blue pill and we made love for nearly an hour before a late breakfast and comfortable drive back to Gurney. Three orgasms for him in fewer than twenty-four hours – not bad for a 67 year-old. LOL.

If you don’t follow football, take a look at Spurs – the club is unique as it doesn’t follow trends, develops from its own youth programmes and has never had the injection of billions from Russian oligarchs or Arab royalty. A real, British institution. #COYS (Come on you Spurs!)

I so loved my Valentine weekend and wouldn’t have swapped it for the world. A fabulous fuck – twice – and watching Spurs beat Manchester City live at the Etihad. Magnificent. Can’t top that!

Angela Goodnight, 20th February 2016

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